"Picking a pocket is just like slipping a pretty lass out of her dress. If you know what you're about, there ain't nothing easier in all the world. If you don't, you're like to end up with nothing but bruises to show for your efforts." – Jasker "Flickerfinger" Macomb, Victorian Pickpocket
(Six Years Ago)
Jack peered into the busy street running along the airship wharves. His eyes narrowed to thin slits. Wagons rumbled, dockworkers heaved and cursed, and everyone bustled. Ladies in fine lace petticoats moved delicately through the crowds on the arms of men in fine coats and top hats; dirty, screaming urchins raced through the throngs, ignoring the angry shouts that followed them; laymen bore their loads with heads tilted down and tipped their caps sullenly at the aristocrats; foremen bellowed and pointed importantly, and even a mechanical chevaline trotted past with gears whirring and grinding, steam puffing intermittently from artificial nostrils.
Jack observed all of this, assessing. There was no room for mistakes. He and Morgan hadn't eaten in three days but for a mouthful of stale bread.
Jack had almost forgotten the terrible hunger after so long in the orphanage, but it returned after their nighttime escape. He hated it. But he was older now, and smarter. He was shrewd enough to watch and listen, and he learned many interesting things from careful observation. Such as the value of money. Who had it and who didn't.
The second day after their flight, Jack observed a curious incident. A grubby boy in patched trousers and a soot-covered shirt – perhaps a few years older than he – stumbled into a man wearing a fine black coat and a silver watchfob. The urchin apologized quickly and scampered away, but a suspicious look flashed over the man's face, and he shouted angrily, hurrying after the boy. Jack had been puzzled, but he witnessed similar incidents as the days passed. Eventually, he noticed the well-dressed people checking their pockets afterwards. The boys were rifling through coats in the collisions.
Jack tried his hand several times, to no avail. All he procured were a few panicked flights from furious gentlemen, who waved threateningly after him with dueling canes. One even shot at him with a revolver. Jack had not expected that, and the incident scared him enough that he ceased his efforts for a time.
Those had been tough days. The hunger returned in full strength. Jack and Morgan returned to scrounging in the waste, as they had before the orphanage. They slept in the alleyways in every kind of weather, covered only by a thin, tattered blanket Morgan discovered in the garbage. They stayed well clear of the alleys' other residents. Jack knew the beggars, alcoholics, and addicts would steal food in a heartbeat, if they saw it before he and Morgan crammed it eagerly into their mouths. They might even try to do the things Father Anthony had done. He always kept a broken cobblestone in his coat pocket and a splintered shovel handle looped to his trousers.
Jack had gotten better at picking marks, though, and he grew quicker the more he practiced. He still rarely managed a successful getaway with any more than his skin, but, on occasion, the reward of a trinket or clinking coins could be found in his clenched fists.
But not lately. The last two marks had known what he was up to before he managed to reach them. Jack had only just slipped away. If he didn't score soon, they would be back to scrounging for rotten vegetables in the gutters. His stomach clenched at the thought.
Jack shrank back instinctively when two constables strode past, clubs swinging from their belts next to black revolvers. They wore the blue uniforms, and hard, conical helmets with silver badges of Brutality's police force. Neither paid him any mind, and he shook himself roughly, breathing a sigh of relief. Acting suspicious was sure to draw unwanted attention. You're just another urchin resting in the shade and watching the airships take off.
All the same, he couldn't help shivering. Very little was as the Illuminati priests had told him. He had never heard of the Primal known as Brutality at the orphanage, only that the constabulary was the arm of Order, providing protection and stability in Victorian. Outside the temple walls there was nothing but fear. No one spoke of protective coppers; they whispered of Brutality's enforcers.
Jack waited until the constables were far beyond his sight before continuing his search. Picking a mark was a delicate business. Rich women rarely carried money, their valuables were seldom kept in a pocket or some other easily reached place, and they were hardly ever alone. Young, athletic men were definitely to be avoided, as their pride was easily wounded, and if they decided to give chase they would almost certainly catch him. Jack tended to pick fat men, who were often confident enough to walk the streets alone, but too overweight to pursue even if they realized his intent. Overweight and elderly was ideal, but the man who shot at him had been elderly, so he was leery of drawing similar attention.
There! Jack's searching eyes picked out an ideal mark. He was a big man, with a golden watch chain dangling from his chest pocket. His wide girth pushed the fine fabric of his shirt and vest over the confines of his waistband. A top hat sat precariously on his black curls, and his eyes squinted through wire-framed spectacles. Most importantly, he didn't appear to be holding a dueling cane, and he was alone.
Jack slipped out of the alley. "Come on." Morgan followed, weaving skillfully behind him through the thick crowd.
"The fat one with the glasses?" his brother muttered.
"Mhm," Jack grunted quietly. They were only a few paces from the man, and he raised his voice in an excited yell. "You can't catch me!" He started shoving his way through the gaps in the throng. Morgan shouted after him, keeping up the ruse.
The fat man's head turned when he heard their raised voices. It was important that the mark heard the game. That way, he would think it a bothersome accident when Jack crashed into him in a few moments.
Everything went as expected. Jack feigned a searching glance over his shoulder for Morgan as he pushed through the crowd before running slap-bang into the fat man. The mark grunted as they collided, and Jack stumbled. He grasped at the man's coat with his left hand to steady himself, and slipped his right into a pocket.
Success! His fingers closed around metal and he withdrew his hand with the prize, stuffing it into his own coat as he staggered back.
"Sorry, good master," Jack gasped, shaking his head as if stunned by the collision.
The fat man eyed him angrily. "Watch yourself, filthy brat!" When the man snarled, his fat lips peeled back in a revolted scowl. He brushed at his coat and vest with a disgusted air. "You steamblown urchins are becoming–" He cut off suddenly, and his eyes squinted behind his glasses. He pawed at his pockets, but Jack was already gone, sprinting for the nearest alley, Morgan on his heels. "Thief!" The shout rang after him. Then, Jack heard something far more chilling. "Bruce, after them!"
Jack looked back anxiously. He had been certain the man was alone. His heart leapt into his throat.
A bodyguard. The man was tall and muscular and dressed in layman's clothing. Only now, as the man shoved unapologetically after them, did Jack see the revolver hanging from his belt and the thick club in his hand. He was far too clean for a real dockhand. Jack cursed as he pushed himself for more speed and urged Morgan to run faster. Workers were never that clean. He should have seen it.
The alley split three ways ahead, and Jack shoved Morgan to the right. He waved his hand in the air for their pursuer to see – the coins still clutched in his fist – and split left. His breaths came in frantic gasps. The bodyguard followed. He put on another spurt of speed, relieved that Morgan had escaped. His legs were churning with panicked adrenalin. Another fork was ahead. Jack tore around the corner to the right...
And ran straight into a dead end. He spun to backtrack, but the bodyguard already stood behind him. The man wore a satisfied grin, and Jack didn't like what he saw in his eyes. The bodyguard advanced, club in hand.
Jack's breathing shortened. He saw no escape. He tossed the shillings on the cobbles and backed away until his shoulders hit the brick wall behind him. It did little good. The bodyguard scooped up the coins and kept coming.
Images flashed in front of his eyes: The stomp of feet and burst of red, the rock in his hand above Johnny Topper's broken face, Father Anthony's unmoving form on the bed.
Jack drew the shovel handle from his waistband in one hand and pulled a broken cobblestone from his pocket with the other.
The bodyguard halted for a moment, a look of surprise replacing that of pleasure. Then, the alley boomed with laughter. "You got balls, kid. I'll give you that." He grabbed at the scruff of his shirt casually, and Jack cracked him on the wrist with the shovel handle. The man bellowed, his face contorting with rage, and he backhanded viciously with the club. The hardened wood crashed into Jack's head.
Pain exploded through his skull, and he fell limply to the cobblestones. His head rang like bells. His arms were numb, and his weapons clattered to the ground beside him.
"You little bastard," the man snarled, flexing his hand and wrist. He raised the cane above his head. Jack's head throbbed, and he struggled to move. The club fell savagely.
The bodyguard grunted and jerked. His head snapped forward, and he fell face first to the ground. Jack struggled, kicking his legs out from beneath the man. The back of the guard's head was bloody.
He looked up, shaking his head to try to clear away the pain. The biggest man he'd ever seen towered over him. Eyes of a smoky grey peered down from a blunt, stony face, and the man's arms and legs were as thick as three normal limbs combined. The stranger leaned down, and a huge barrel chest blocked out the sky. Jack realized he was offering his hand.
Jack took it warily and was pulled to his feet. He saw a revolver tucked in the waistband beneath the man's coat.
"Never steal from anyone with a bodyguard, lad." The stranger was grinning, but he seemed to mean what he said. "Always plan your escape routes before a pick, too. Otherwise you could end up stuck in a dead end." He raised an eyebrow at their surroundings.
Jack nodded because he didn't know what else to do. He stopped quickly, though, because his head ached like thunder. "How do you know so much about pickpocketing?" The man was so big he could probably just take whatever he wanted.
"A lot of dippers work for me," the hulking stranger admitted, tucking the club up his coat sleeve, "but I didn't always have others to do my stealing either." He looked down with considering eyes, weighing him. "What's your name, boy?"
Jack didn't want to say, but the man had just saved him from a beating. "Jack."
The man grunted. "Well, Jack, you got a pair o' brass ones, I'll say that much. I ain't ever seen a boy draw down on a bodyguard like that." He spat on the guard's back. "You're naught but skin and bone. You hungry?"
Jack nodded, suspicious.
"I tell you what, come work for me and you'll never be hungry again." Jack opened his mouth to say no. He'd heard that before. The man raised a finger, forestalling him. "I'll teach you everything there is to know about buzzing. Plus, you won't have to sleep in the street anymore. You'll have a roof over your head, at any rate."
Jack looked at the limp bodyguard, then back at the huge man. "Morgan, too?"
"That other kid you were running with?"
"My brother."
The blunt head moved up and down. "Him, too." The man bent over, pulled the revolver out of the bodyguard's belt, and tucked it into his coat. He offered Jack the guard's club. "What do you say?"
In answer, Jack spat on the back of the bodyguard's head, then took the proffered weapon. "Yes, sir."
The man grinned.
"My name's Fist, boy. Welcome to the gang."